Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(16)
“Aside from Brickham’s old-school methods of filing, how’s the clinic going?” Cecily asks, leaning back on her elbows to look over at me.
“It’s pretty slow—which isn’t the worst thing because it gives me more time to be here and with my mom.” I shrug. “The old-school ranchers want Brickham because I refuse to perform medical procedures in the middle of a dirty barn or field. But I’m hoping more of the women will start wanting to come to me, at least.”
Kate gives me a knowing look. I’m sure most of the cowboys at Wells Ranch would also rather see Brickham, the seventy-year-old doctor with techniques that are equally as old. But she says, “Count me in. I’m excited to not have to drive to Sheridan every time the kids get hurt or sick. Jackson can have Brickham bandage up whatever injuries he gets, but I refuse to let him work on the kids.”
“As much as I don’t want to talk shit about my boss, I can’t say I blame you.” I press the balls of my feet against the floorboards and push, sending the chair rocking backward. “I fell off a horse and dislocated my shoulder when I was a teenager. Brickham tied my arm up in a makeshift sling with baling twine. In his office. It’s not like we were out in the middle of nowhere and he was forced to make do. And I know at least once he stitched Denver up right on this porch with questionably sterile tools.”
“Jesus.” Cecily widens her eyes at me, as Beryl’s singsong voice floats through the fine mesh of the screen door, beckoning the two women to help knead bread dough for the hundreds of sandwiches they make for their cowboys each week.
I glance down at Hazel’s fine red hair blowing in the slight breeze and pull the blanket up to keep her perfectly round head warm. Honestly, this tiny human might be the main reason why I haven’t spiraled into a deep depression over moving back into my childhood bedroom. Sure, the prescription medication helps, but one hit of oxytocin from snuggling this little Hazelnut is enough to get me through a lot of bad moments.
Mid-sip of my coffee, the clomping of hooves on compact dirt deflates my chest. Typically the one thing I can count on here is that the ranch hands will be gone from sunup to sundown—my saving grace to avoid seeing Denver because the way he smiles at me makes my brain foggy, and seeing another woman all over him at the bar left me feeling like my heart had collapsed in on itself.
“Oh, it’s lucky you’re cute.” I pull a face at the infant nestled into the crook of my arm when I feel her stomach rumble on my hand. “You literally save it for me, don’t you?”
Her giant blue eyes blink up at me, and she starts to work up a cry when she realizes I’m not her mom. Her mom…who didn’t think to leave a diaper bag with me. Fuck, Cass. She’s supposed to be the organized one out of the two of us.
“Let’s go for an adventure, Hazelnut.” Up until now, I’ve spent my time with Hazel over at Cassidy and Red’s cabin on the property. But I’m sure Cass isn’t walking back there to change a diaper every time, so I head inside to find Kate wiping loose flour from the countertop.
“Hey, does Cass have diapers around here?”
“Upstairs in the first bedroom on the left. Her diapers are in the second drawer below the change table.”
Upstairs.
I take the stairs at a painstaking pace, my free hand on the banister with a rigid grip. Thankfully, Hazel doesn’t seem too bothered by what’s happening in her pants, because I’m incapable of moving faster. I don’t look to the right—to the bedroom I spent countless hours in. Instead, I slip carefully through the door of Austin’s—um, Rhett’s—room. Making quick work of changing Hazel so I can get back outside, away from the nostalgic smell of old wood and antique furniture.
But I lose every ounce of self-control when I step out and notice Denver’s old bedroom door cracked open. I tread softly, wary of creaky floorboards, like I’ll get in trouble for stealing a peek. With a gentle nudge, the hinges groan and the door swings all the way open. Everything in the room is pink now, so I don’t know why I feel the urge to lie down in a bed that definitely won’t smell like him. Or why I expect to open the closet and find a hoodie of his to steal. Despite the changes to the paint and furniture, the floor remains dented and marked up from the summer we taught ourselves country swing dancing, and it guts me. I blink away the burning in my eyes and take calculated breaths as I descend to the main floor, clutching Hazel to my chest like a security blanket.
“Wow. Feels weird seeing you walk down those stairs again.” Denver’s voice rings out from the doorway.
I should’ve handed the baby off to one of the women in the kitchen and left the moment I heard those horses outside.
“Since you’re already here, mind doing a house call to save me the drive into town?”
Of course he’s the appointment Brickham told me I have today. I would’ve known it was Denver, had I been able to navigate the office’s stupid appointment system. But at this point, it feels like his method of booking is partially done via Post-it notes scattered across his desk, and partially kept nowhere but in Brickham’s head. Which is an organizational method I can appreciate, except when my appointments are in his head instead of mine.
“I don’t do house calls.”
He tilts his head, giving puppy dog eyes. “Not even for an old friend?”